


Calculated Risks

by somuchust



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchust/pseuds/somuchust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief, perhaps slightly exaggerated, summary of how Natasha and Clint met: lies, semi-public sex, attempted murder, rough sex and an invitation. In this order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calculated Risks

Jeremy, as if that is his real name, is talking about an accident that supposedly occurred at the hospital he works at. Natasha's hand is playing with her glass, spinning it slowly, and she watches the liquid swirl before looking back at him. Sandy hair, light brown eyes, almost adorable crinkles around his eyes and what could only be describes as a sweet smile. Jeans, t-shirt. He said he was a nurse, releasing tension in a bar after a stressful day at work. He appears harmless.

That is what she sees. This is what she knows:

He's a decent liar. She might have believed him, at least for a moment or two, had she not spotted him a couple of days ago, in a different city. She has a good memory for faces, she has to. There are no coincidences in her line of work. 

He's clearly trying to play her. Not very well. He's physically fit, strong enough and could be fast. There is something about him, something she cannot put into words but knows to be true, that makes her think he is dangerous. She cannot tell exactly what he does for a living or what he wants with her, but she has a suspicion. 

She saw him empty his drink into a potted plant when she pretended she needed to go to the bathroom. She is not sure what he did with the ones that they had before – she can handle her vodka, she doesn't need to resort to such obvious tactics, at least not yet – but she is fairly sure his inebriation is just part of the harmless guy-who-just-wants-in-her-pants act and not actually real.

Of course, she's doing the same thing, by laughing too loudly at his lame jokes and swaying almost subconsciously to the music, but she likes to think she's more convincing. Then again, if he knows who she is, he won't fall for it. But it's unlikely he does. The most likely theory is that he knows that she's not Brienne, the alias she's using to get to her target, but he doesn't know her real identity. That would explain why he seems to think he can fool her.

Who hired him? It's extremely unlikely he's working on his own to take her down. If he was involved with this case, she would know who he was.

Her train of thought is interrupted when he decided to demonstrate exactly how the patient's hand was cut. He grabs her hand and gently pries it apart from her nearly empty glass. He's supporting her wrist with one of his hands, and tracing a line on her palm with the other. His fingertips are calloused, his grip calculated, soft, but she knows that if she tried to remove her hand from his, he could prevent her from doing so. His real strength is in his arms – it's summer, he's wearing short sleeves, and fuck those biceps are well defined - and she knows that if he kills, he uses his hands. She doesn't know the precise details of his methods, but the fact that her hand is trapped between his sends a shiver up her spine. It's not fear exactly, it's more like something else, something she doesn't get to feel as often as she'd like to. Anticipation of a fight, maybe?

He doesn't let go of her hand even after he's finished with that silly story. Instead, he traces small circles into her skin and outlines her fingers with his, as if he's measuring her up somehow. He's doing all that while continuing his monologue and looking into her eyes. She's quite sure that even he realizes she's not really listening to him any more. Her hand feels ridiculously sensitive. She can't remember the last time anyone touched her like that, with such dangerous intensity.

She doesn't actually think he could hurt her. But a part of her wants to see him try. 

So she stretches out her leg and brushes her foot against his calf. It's an old trick, but it gets his attention. His breath hitches and he stops talking. She's grateful for that, she was getting quite fed up with it. Regardless of whether they fight or fuck, it would be preferable to this.

“I have a room upstairs,” she says, quietly, smirking. He smiles in return and stands up, not letting go of her hand until she's standing as well (wobbling slightly, keeping up the drunken act). She heads towards the stairs, not checking whether he's following. She doesn't have to. She can feel his gaze all over her body, and there it is again, the feeling of being judged and assessed. He must be getting a nice view. The strapless little black dress she's wearing is tight and barely covers her ass, but she doesn't think that's what he's looking at.

That is, until they reach the top of the stairs and he grips her waist lightly. “Stop,” he says, and she does, unsure why. They're standing in the middle of the empty hallway as he moves his hands down and splays them over her ass, his fingertips catching the hem of her skirt and lifting it slowly.

Why is he - could she be completely wrong, is he actually just a guy looking to get laid? But she was so sure... It's the sheer shock she feels – and maybe the unexpected warmth in her stomach, and lower, when she feels his fingers brush against her skin – that prevents her from protesting as he pulls up her skirt completely, exposing her panties. He steps closer, pressing towards her back and tucking his chin on her shoulder. She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He grips her waist, thumbs brushing up against her hipbones, and pulls her tight against him. She can feel his hardness against her. Her mind reels, and she's forced to acknowledge that she's not fully prepared for this situation. Half naked in a hotel corridor, in the arms of a man she was expecting to fight and interrogate (and maybe fuck in the process), not let him do whatever he pleases in a public place. 

Maybe she should stop him. But then again, she hasn't been this turned on in a while, and if this guy actually just wants sex, that suits her needs perfectly. And if he wants something else, she can handle that later. In a way, a public place is safer – it would be more logical for him to try to hurt her in her bedroom where no one can see.

He slides his hands upwards, over her stomach and breasts. He pulls down the part of the dress that covers her breasts too – and she's not wearing a bra, no room for it with this dress – and uses his other hand to tilt her face to the side enough he can catch her lips in a chaste kiss. 

He maneuvers them so his back is against the wall. Her dress is useless now, covering only her stomach, and he's playing with her nipples, pinching them while she's checking thst they're still alone in the hallway. They've been extremely lucky so far and she doesn't think they have much time left.

He splays one hand on her stomach and uses the other to cup her ass again, squeezing. He slides his hand lower, between her thighs, and she's dripping wet by now, he must be able to feel that as he rubs her gently through her panties. She isn't sure what to do with her arms, so she uses them to cover his hand on her stomach and hold onto that. He pushes away the thin strip of fabric that lies between his fingers and her wetness and doesn't hesitate before shoving two fingers into her. She throws her head back as he fucks her with his digits, quickly and relentlessly, so unlike the way she touches herself.

Of course, this is the moment some elderly couple chooses to start coming up the stairs. 

They work together as if they'd discussed what to do. He pulls her dress down to cover her hips, she tugs it up to hide her naked breasts. They step apart and the whole process only takes about two seconds. 

“Room?” she suggests again, breathless, and Jeremy just nods, his face flushed. He follows her to her room. She struggles a bit with the key, her hands shaking – did he really throw her off balance that badly? 

As soon as they're both inside, she locks the door. She turn around to find a gun pointed at her and 'Jeremy' giving her a slightly apologetic shrug. 

Unfortunately for him, that gives her the extra moment she needs to process the situation and react. She spins towards him, lightning fast, so she can get both of her hands on the arm he's using to hold the gun, and she kicks him in the shins as she rips the gun out of his grip – which is not very good, clearly not his weapon of choice – and she spins right back, out of his reach, still aiming right at his head.

She pulls the trigger.

Blank. She does it again, and again, with no success. She gives up, and drops the gun to the floor. He lunges at her, but she twists and eludes him. She kicks, misses, because he's too fast and he's gripping her calf now. He tugs and she loses her balance, but he catches one of her arms in his. She struggles to get free before she realizes she was right, he does have strong arms, so she uses them as leverage instead while she kicks him with her free leg, hard. They tumble to the floor, and she's on top, but he's still clutching one of her arms and legs. She tries to punch him in the face – classy – but he avoids her fist. She wants to try again, but he rolls them around. He releases her leg so he can hold both of her arms above her head and pin her down. He's not holding back, and her wrists hurt like hell. He's settled between her legs, so she tries head-butting him, but he moves away just in the nick of time. She cannot free her arms, so she attempts to use her lower body and kicks him as hard as she can from this angle, which is not as effective as she wishes it were. He just laughs.

“What the hell do you want,” she says through gritted teeth while trashing around and trying to get away. Perhaps talking will distract him.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he lets go of her arms and instead grabs her hips and aligns them with his. And okay, that is an answer in itself. Her dress must have been hitched up during their fight again, because the still wet fabric of her panties is the only barrier between her and his jeans, and he's definitely still interested.

However, that doesn't matter, because now her arms are free. She raises herself and manages to hit him in the face, but then he's got an arm around her lower back and he's lifting her so she's basically sitting in his lap. He tangles his other hand in her hear and pulls, and she has to let him tilt her head backwards to avoid damage to her scalp, her back arching and her body grinding against his involuntarily. She moans, and it sounds a bit too much like pleasure rather than pain. This pleases him, judging by the throaty laugh she hears and the bulge she can feel when she grinds her hips down. And she does so, repeatedly, deciding to use this to her advantage and enjoyment. She places her hands on his shoulders, seemingly for support, but really so she can have quick access to his neck if she needs to.

He keeps one hand in her hair, as if that gives him some sort of control over her and moves the other between them and unzips his jeans. She gets an idea and reaches for the knife she had hidden in her boot. He notices it and his entire body stiffens in fear. She chuckles and slides the blade down her hip, between her skin and underwear, and then tears the fabric in one smooth motion. She looks into his eyes, which are still wide with fear, and smirks. 

“Convenient, isn't it?” she murmurs as she repeats the process on the other side. He breathes deeply, relaxes and pulls the ruined piece of clothing from under her while she tucks the knife away back where it belongs. 

She puts her weight on her knees, one on each side of him, as he raises his hips and tugs down his trousers enough the free his cock. He pulls a condom wrapper from his pocket, opens it and puts it on in a matter of seconds while she watches. Then she grabs a hold of his cock, guides it to her opening and wastes no time before sinking down on it. She revels in the feeling of being stretched open and he gives her a few moments before thrusting upwards. She grinds down and soon they've got a perfect rhythm going, as if they'd been practising, and he's hitting that spot in her that makes her dig her fingers into his skin. 

Suddenly, he pauses, leans forward far enough to lay her on her back again and angles her hips to suit him as he fucks her against the floor. He grips her waist tight enough to leave bruises, and although she's enjoying it, it's not exactly Natasha's favourite position – it makes her feel to passive – and she pushes him away momentarily so she can bend her one of her knees to her chest and then stretch it upwards and hook it on his shoulders. He catches on quickly and thrusts right back into her, the angle allowing him deeper penetration. She's flexible enough that the position is not uncomfortable for her. She moves her arms above her head, tries to get a grip on the floor so she can get more support to meet his thrusts, and they can fuck faster, deeper, harder. 

When she finally reaches her climax she gasps, arches and clenches around him, but he doesn't stop, not yet, he doesn't even slow down until she rides out the orgasm, and then she can feel him come as well, slowing down.

A few moments pass when they're both just breathing heavily, and then he lowers the foot she has on his shoulder, pulls out of her and leans back, sitting on the balls of his feet. He removes the condom, looks around briefly and tosses it into the bin when he spots it. Natasha doesn't move from the floor – she sees no need to do so quite yet – while he stands up and tries to makes himself look decent again.

“Truce?” he says, smile audible in his voice. 

“For now,” she answers.

“As you wish,” he replies. “But if you change your mind... Don't piss them off, and I won't have to kill you.” He pulls a business card out of his pocket and tosses it at her. 

“I'm sure you would try,” she mutters as she looks at the card. S.H.I.E.L.D, it says in big letters, followed by an explanation of the acronym and an address.

He turns and walks towards the door. “Hey,” she calls out, and he stop with his hand on the door handle. “Who do I ask for? If I... Want to get to know them better.”

He hesitates for a second. She suspects it's because he's trying to come up with another fake name - amateur.

“Clint,” he says finally, without looking at her, and closes the door behind him.


End file.
